


Small Talk

by quaffles



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst/Fluff, Family Dinner, M/M, Meet the Family, Mentions of cock and coming but no graphic sex scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffles/pseuds/quaffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian has a hard time convincing his boyf- <em>Mickey</em> to come over for a Friday night family dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Talk

Ian watches Fiona light the oven with a match, playing with the gas knobs like she's tuning an overworked guitar. There is the tiniest of flickers as a small flame appears but just as quickly, it wavers and goes out, leaving a frustrated Fiona cursing the kids for the umpteenth time. Carl and Debbie's game of 'can you burn that?' culminated in an imploding oven and two weeks of grounding apiece.

So it's probably not a good idea to ask; as if they ever know what the next meal's going to be but it doesn't hurt to start.

"What's for dinner tomorrow?" he asks, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"What's it to you?" she almost barks back.

Ian raises an eyebrow, balking at her aggressive tone. Jimmy must have done something to piss her off again.

"I- uh- was thinking of inviting a friend over." He pauses, thinks of saying more but decides against it when he sees Fiona turning away from the stove to stalk towards him, an inquisitive smile on her face.

"A friend?" she asks, "And who's this friend of yours?"

"Nobody," replies Ian quickly. "He's just," he stops when Fiona's smile widens at the pronoun, "someone I've known for a while. I thought he'd like to meet you guys properly."

Fiona's chin settles over her hands, elbows resting on the stained kitchen bench, and watches him with a frankly alarming intensity, as if she's trying to figure him out, drawing patterns in her head and working out where Ian fits amongst it all.

"Look, if you don't want to meet him--"

"No, I never said that did I?" Fiona tsks, and when she opens her mouth again, she's got that look on her face- that one she wears when she's about to chew him out, interrogate him to within an inch of his life, make him regret the day he was born, and so on and so forth. And Ian? Ian is so  _not ready_ for that. But there must be something looking out for him because he's saved from death by cross-examination by the sound of the front door bursting open, bouncing hard against the wall, and the wail of the kids. 

"Uh, okay," says Ian, already halfway out of the room, "I'll talk to you later then."

Ian can't see her face when she shouts it but when he hears the, "I'll scrounge up something fancy for tomorrow," Ian wants to turn around and sweep her into a bear hug, demonstrate his thanks with touch alone. He doesn't though, just skips up the stairs with a gleeful look that's got Lip good-naturedly calling him a fairy.

 

* * *

 

It's late November and the air is cold. Patches of frost are already forming on the field though it's barely dusk. It's light enough to discern two shadows hiding out in the baseball dugout, but dark enough that no one could make head or tail of what they're doing.

Good thing too, because Ian is so hard, he doesn't think he could tuck his dick away if he tried. 

His pants are down by his knees, ass exposed to the cool evening, and it's a nice contrast to the heat of Mickey's body blanketed by his own. Mickey's skin is burning where his shirt has been pushed up by Ian's eager hands, now gripping Mickey's hips a little too tightly, his cock easing itself into Mickey's clenching hole. Ian has already set a steady pace, breath more shallow with each thrust, Mick's whines more audible with every drag. It isn't long before Mickey's bringing his hand up and around Ian, from where it's been gripping the stone wall with a death-like grip, to fumble at Ian's ass. Mick grabs on to the divot at Ian's hipbone and pulls him closer, driving Ian’s dick harder into him, bringing him closer and closer with every thrust.

Ian groans right into the hollow of Mickey's ear as the boy underneath him shifts forward. And fuck, he needs to feel Mickey _now_ , needs to fist his cock, feel its heat, its slickness with his bare hands. He doesn't think he can last much longer, so he begins with gentle strokes that become insistent tugs which Mick doesn't seem to mind, in fact, he seems to _like_ it, letting out a sinful moan as Ian drags his thumb over the head of his cock.

They're both silent as they come, Mickey first with Ian close behind. They ride out their orgasms clawing at the other, pressing as close as they can, but by the time Ian's come down from his high, Mickey has already pushed him away and pulled his shirt over sweat ridden hair.

Ian registers the hurt as he would the prick of a needle-- sharp and intense but short-lived. In any case, he's too busy buttoning his jeans to dwell on what that could mean.

"It's too fucking cold to do this out here anymore." Mickey lounges on the bench, eyes half-lidded with a smoke shifting precariously between bruised lips.

Ian smirks as he sits down next to him, and takes the cigarette right out of Mickey's mouth. "You weren't complaining when I was pounding into you a second ago."

"Yeah, yeah, eat it up," says Mickey, but he doesn't sound miffed or anything, more so amused than anything else, so Ian takes his chance because he knows this boy and there's never going to be as good an opening as that one.

"Speaking of eating it up, what are you doing tomorrow?"

"Probably trying to keep boys from climbing into Mandy's room," Mickey replies, shrugging, "and I'll probably jerk off to porn before my dad comes home."

"Do you want to come over for dinner?"

Ian expects silence, confusion even. What he doesn't expect is the derisive bark of laughter that comes tumbling out, the cigarette falling out of Mickey's mouth and burning out against the dirt. His voice is jeering when he says, "What, are you going to cook me dinner? Are we playing house now?"

"Uh, no," Ian says. He clears his throat and wills himself to look Mickey dead on despite the tiny jolts of terror jumping from synapse to synapse. "Fiona's cooking and she really wants to meet you. My whole family does."

It's a lie but somehow Ian can't bring himself to regret it, especially when it seems his bright idea has earned him nothing but a flash of embarrassment now that Mickey's glaring at him with as much venom as the time he'd accidently said the L word during sex.

"You're fucking kidding me," Mickey says, already on his feet, walking away from him. "Come on, Ian, tell me you're joking."

It's a littler harder to ignore the burn of Mickey's rejection this time, because what’s there to joke about?

"I thought," Ian starts, "I thought it was about time you met them. They already know about us."

When Ian had clued in on the fact that Fiona and Lip knew he was ducking out at all hours of the night, practically every day of the week, to see Mickey, he didn't have the strength to deny it. He didn't want to. Mickey had given him hell for that and broken things off with Ian, anger and fear filling his lungs as he hurled vitriol Ian's way. They'd kissed and made up by the end of the week when Mickey came seeking him out, claiming that it was either apologise to Ian for his unfair tirade or die from blue balls.

"I see them all the time," grits out Mickey. "If they know it's me you're fucking, what should it matter? It's not like I'll be making small talk if I ever see them on the street. We don't work like that, Ian."

"I'm not asking you to make small talk," says Ian, defensive, standing up too and watching Mickey pace the dugout like a caged animal, ready to bite if poked at. "I'm asking you to come to _dinner_. It's not a big deal. So, okay, maybe you'll have to do a bit of small talk when Fiona asks you where you're working or how your dad and Mandy are going. But my family is big and they'll be too busy talking shit to each other to even notice you're there. You can talk to me the whole night."

Ian closes his eyes, sick of the look on Mickey's face-- screwed up in pain, as if he's in need of a massive morphine hit, as if Ian's asking him to swim the river Styx for him.

Ian isn't as brave as he wants to be, but when he's lying in bed late at night, listening to Lip's steady and reassuring breaths, and counting what makes his life worth living, Mickey is always there, he's the first on the goddamn list now that his dreams of West Point are over. He wants to be brave for Mickey; sometimes he forgets that Mickey doesn't feel quite the same way.

"Jesus, Mickey." Ian's voice is barely audible. "We haven't even sat down for a meal together. At a restaurant, or a friggin' McDonalds. We fuck and we talk."

"Sounds about right." Mickey stops pacing and drops onto the bench, stretching out his neck muscles. The unnerved, flustered Mick is gone, replaced by a fearless, careless one. "Wouldn’t you say we're working out just fine the way we are? We fuck and we talk, that's it. We don't hold hands, or go on dates and we're not _boyfriends_. So why are we talking about bullshit like meeting the family?"

His voice is hard and blunt as if there's no room for argument. There never is with Mickey.

Mickey sets the terms of their relationship and Ian abides by them; that's the sad truth of it. Sometimes he'll run around them, see if there are breaches in Mickey's stipulations, and he'll usually find something. He can cajole and manipulate on par with the best of them once he's found a loophole in Mickey's rulings, the weak spot in his armour.

But when Mickey puts their relationship in a box and refuses to hand over a key or give way to Ian's useless pleas, he has no other choice but to submit.

The realisation has anger coursing through him so fast, he's clenching his fists and scuffling his shoes into the dirt before his brain's even registered it.

"Fine," Ian grinds out, "you don't want to come to dinner. That's fine."

And he turns around, because he doesn't want to look into that indifferent face, he doesn't want to see snide ocean eyes staring back.

"Oh, come on. Don't run and cry," mocks Mickey, "What did you think I was going to say?"

Ian swallows the fury burning up inside of him. He doesn't want to say anything he'll regret; he's learnt that lesson a couple of times now. "I thought you were going to be shocked and then consider it. I didn't think you were going to sweep it under the rug. I didn't think you'd sweep _us_ under the rug. I know we're not boyfriends, but you mean something to me, and I don't know what that means so don't ask me!" He adds swiftly when he sees conflict flash in Mickey's eyes. "But I actually care for you and I want my family to know that there's someone that might care for me too."

Ian feels something clench up inside of him, a tightness that won't let up no matter how many breaths he takes in.

"But hey," Ian says, watching Mickey look down into his lap, away from his gaze, as if he's _embarrassing_ Mickey, "guess I'll save that for when I find someone that actually does."

Mickey doesn't volunteer anything after that, no consolatory words or mocking gestures either. There's no anger in Mickey's face when Ian makes to leave, no promises of a break up or any of the choice phrases Mickey likes to deal when he's running scared so Ian chalks it up as a win, even though it isn't. Not by a long shot.

 

* * *

 

The house used to feel like a travellers lodge, souls moving in and out without stopping long enough to remember the features of each other's faces. Ian has felt better about the house, and his family, for a while now, and he doesn't really think like that anymore, not when he and his siblings have gone through what they have, dealing with his lying, cheating scumbag of a father, witnessing his mother colour their kitchen floor bright red.

In any case, he gives Fiona and Lip far too little credit. They're both perceptive, almost to a fault, because now Ian can't get them off his back.

Fiona ambushes him when he gets back from the baseball field, eyes worn from holding back tears (he may be a gay, but he's not a _girl_ ). She's not often in their room but when she is, there's usually a huge ass issue she wants to get out in the open, mull it over with the boys, knock their heads together if she has to.

Lip's not here though, so if there's something Fiona wants to talk to Ian about, it has to have something to do with the neon sign above his head that's been saying "Gay!" to her for the last few months.

"I don't want to talk," he grumbles, sidestepping her and falling face first into bed.

"Too bad, mister," she says, climbing onto his desk and kicking his feet with her own. "We've got to figure out a way of telling the kids about Mickey coming over without making things too awkward. Do you want them to know he's your boyfriend, or?"

And that shouldn't hurt like it does, but Fiona could've thrown Lip's basketball at his head, and that would have stung far less.

"He's not my boyfriend." He sounds flat, emotionless. Which is good. (He thinks.) "And he's not coming over so forget it."

"Oh." He listens to her jump off the desk, hears the footsteps shuffling closer to the head of his bed. "He said no?"

"No, he said he'd love to but there's a magical ball in town that he really can’t afford to miss,” he says, dryly.

"Right," Fiona's voice is rougher now, as if she's resolved to-- what? What's she resolved to do? There's nothing to be done. "Well, sucks to be him. 'Cause I'm cooking a feast for freaking kings tomorrow and if he can't appreciate that then he doesn't deserve it."

Ian turns his head to the side and cops an eyeful of a sincere Fiona looking at him with sad, soft eyes. And oh god, _no_. He's not going to let Fiona add his stupid teenage melodrama onto her list of things to worry about.

He shakes his head and shoos her away, rolling onto his side to escape those pitying eyes.

Fiona goes, and when the door closes, he strains to hear the footsteps heading downstairs. It's not for a full thirty seconds that he hears them, irrationally frustrated and warmed at the thought of Fiona concerned about him.

Not that Fiona's the only one. Except, when the concern's coming from _Lip_ ; and okay, Ian can't explain it, he really, really can't, but when it's coming from Lip, Ian can't take it. Because brothers are supposed to get each other drunk, wingman them into a hook-up and make fun of each other after dumb break ups.

"You're right," says Lip when Ian reminds him of said brotherly duty. "We're going to go out and use our fake I.Ds to get into gay bars."

Ian just sends him a sharp look, snorting despite himself because well, Lip's trying at least.

"Or not. We'll stay in and not talk about this."

That's a plan Ian doesn't oppose. Until he realises Lip's idea of 'not talking about it' is really the reverse; he goes around the issue, of course, by talking about himself and his own heartbreaks, how it'll take a little time and lot of alcohol, but Ian’ll get over it.

Ian grinds his teeth, and he doesn't mean to snap at his well-meaning brother, but really, "It's not a break up! How can you break up with someone when you're not even together."

It's not a question, but Lip takes it as one anyway. "Huh. That's interesting. Not that I didn't expect it," and his words are slurred a little as he lights up a smoke, "but it was still a dick move."

Ian hums in agreement, nothing to add.

 

* * *

 

He’s stuck somewhere between dream and consciousness when the doorbell rings, so it’s really not his fault that its implications don't hit him over the head with the full force of understanding.

In fact, he’s still fighting his way to the surface when Fiona’s frantic calls float up the stairs. The way she’s shouting at him is different to the frustrated way she’ll yell at him to pick up his clothes or stop fighting with Lip or get out of bed _or so help me god._ There’s a thread of excitement and _knowing_ in it and that alone has Ian bolting upright, tangling himself in the sheets.

Because there’s somebody at the door. For _him_.

His heart almost breaks out of his chest and makes a run for it, but he keeps it in there long enough to latch onto an iota of sense and ground his nerves.

There's only one person at the door waiting for Ian, and seeing as he only invited the one person, it's got to be Mickey.

The stairs fly past him as he jumps three at a time while simultaneously smoothing down his sleep mussed hair with spit-covered palms, and when Fiona moves to walk past him, she shoots him a look that’s so close to _don’t screw this up_ that Ian watches her receding back with confusion. Why would _he_ be the one to screw things up? Hadn’t Fiona been on his side just under an hour ago?

 _Whatever_ , Ian thinks, whirling around to see with his own eyes the unworthy asshole he’s been pining over.

The fact that Mickey is standing on his doorstep at all is nothing short of a miracle, but Ian can't bring himself to compromise more than he already has. He can't get used to this. There's no way he's going to let himself get worked up over the meagre scraps Mickey is throwing him.

"Why are you doing here?"

Mickey looks somewhat presentable in his well-cut jeans, a plain white shirt without any of his trademark stains, and polished dress shoes (where the hell did he get those?). It's a massive surprise how much of a gentlemen he actually looks and Ian can't help taking a literal step back, eyes tracing a newly made over Mickey with unabashed appreciation. He looks like a downright treat, if Ian allows himself to overlook the residual anger. Mickey hasn't brought anything-- no dessert, no bottle of Chicago's finest, or god forbid, flowers-- but Ian lets that slide because they live in freaking Canaryville, not along Michigan Ave.

"What do you think?" snarks Mickey with no heat whatsoever as he shuffles his feet, looking over Ian's shoulder with what can only be described as pure terror. "Now get out of the way so we can get this fucking weird night over with."

The corners of Ian's mouth lift, unbidden. He's supposed to be angry, goddammit, but just seeing Mickey on his doorstep, a bundle of nerves and frazzled discomposure, fills Ian's whole being with hope, however misplaced it may be, and he can't bring himself to give a shit.

Ian nods, schooling his expression back to unforgiving, though had Mickey been less anxious, he'd have seen right through him. "Right, and what made you realise how much of asshole you were being?"

At Ian's unimpressed tone, the fight leaves Mickey's eyes and he shrugs. "I figured if I wanted to get laid, I'd better suck it up and do something you wanted for once."

And that, right there, has a smile blooming wide onto Ian's face. Because for the first time, Mickey's thrown the ball into Ian's court, given him the control he's craved for so long in the ridiculous game they've been playing. For once, Mickey's the one that's compromising and Ian wants to dance across the room with how freeing that is.

"You look nice," is what Ian says instead.

Mickey rolls his eyes as he moves past him into the house. "Don't get used to it."

As soon as Mickey's made it inside, he's subject to a chorus of "hey Mickey"s. He stands in the middle of the room, doing his best to not look nervous, even though he's failing spectacularly. Lip claps him on the back, strangely friendly, as he makes his way to the kitchen, and the kids don't even bother looking up from the Connect 4 play set they’d nicked from a kid at school.

Even Fiona doesn’t so much as a bat an eyelash when she comes out to offer Mickey a cup of tea or coffee (which he refuses of course, because the thought of Mickey drinking tea is simply laughable).

"It’s nice you could make it, Mickey. Last minute changes in your plans?" Fiona asks, terse, the only indication of her knowledge of their earlier tiff. Her passive aggressive tone has both pairs of their eyebrows climbing higher on their foreheads.

Mickey nods.

"Wait," says Debbie, physically tearing herself away from an undoubtedly intense round of Connect 4. "Is Mickey staying for dinner?"

She looks at Mickey for the answer and after five or so seconds of uncomfortable silence, Mickey says stiffly, "yes.”

Debbie frowns, lips pushing out into a pout. "Why does Ian get to have friends over for dinner?" she asks. "If I'd known, I'd have asked Amelia to stay."

"I would also like Amelia over," pipes up Carl, valiantly trying to be nonchalant even as his ruby cheeks gives away his little schoolboy crush on Amelia Roy.

Fiona doesn't bother with a reply, heading back into the kitchen after she's instructed the kids to open the door for Jimmy when he gets here. Ian tries to talk to Mickey then, but finds it nearly impossible to pry anything out of the boy that isn't monosyllabic or primal-sounding in nature.

When Ian's called into the kitchen to pick up the plates and utensils, Mickey throws him a thoroughly panicked look, pleading-- well, no, _threatening_ with his eyes to _not leave him with the kids_.

Ian grins, devilish, and leaves Mickey to the dogs.

Once the table's been set and Jimmy's arrived with freshly baked cherry and vanilla pie and an odd, almost suspicious, glance at Mickey, they claim their seats, Mickey sticking close to Ian, and Fiona and Jimmy opposite them. Ian watches Lip fall lazily onto his seat next to Mickey, and suddenly feels wary of what his brother might be up to.

The thing is Ian _knew_. He didn't have to be freaking psychic to figure it out; he knew this wasn't going to end well. A new presence at the table was always going to freak everyone out. A new presence that resembled Mickey Milkovich? Guaranteed disaster right there. So yeah, Ian knew that it was going to snowball fast, he'd just hoped he’d have the chance to take his first bite before it began.

"So, Mickey," starts Jimmy, shovelling a copious amount of mash onto his plate, digging right in before Debbie and Carl have even clamoured into their assigned seats, grumbling about Fiona’s ban on TV during dinner and _why do we have to use plates and utensils like normal people?_ "I've heard a lot about you."

That's all he says but it's enough to have Ian gripping the bottom of his seat with dubious expectation and Mickey side eyeing Ian hard.

"Yeah?" is Mickey’s simple reply.

"Yep, so what I want to know," continues Jimmy once he's sure he's got Mickey's undivided attention, fingers steepled in what he probably thinks is a threatening manner, "is how many times you’ve been in juvie."

Lip snorts by his place on the other side of Mickey as Ian chokes on his first, and probably last, mouthful, since he’s pretty much 100% ready to spontaneously combust out of embarrassment and distress. Carl and Debbie chatter aimlessly on the sides, still battling their claim to Amelia, utterly oblivious to the heart attack Ian can feel coming over him. All very predictable reactions, of course, except for Fiona, who just sits back in her chair and continues to cut into the chicken breast, grip on knife and fork unfaltering, which has Ian wondering with indignation whether or not she’s orchestrated this.

"Twice," says Mickey, without missing a beat.

"Right, right,” Jimmy agrees outwardly even though his sceptical eyes tell a different story altogether. “And what did you do to get yourself in there the last time?"

“Nothing deserving of the bullshit sentence I got saddled with—“

Lip coughs into his chicken, saying quietly, “Might want to ease up on the swearing in front of the kids,” which has Ian reaching behind Mickey’s seat to smack his brother over the head.

“When has swearing been an issue?” he hisses, and he can feel his flush deepen as Lip fixes him with a look that’s way too amused.

“Hey, you know how Fiona likes to pretend we’re normal.” He shrugs. “I’m just trying to help your boyfriend make a good impression.”

Ian freezes, heart suddenly seizing up in fear and worry, edging out the embarrassment that’s been threatening to engulf him since Jimmy opened his mouth. If Mickey runs now, it—everything they’ve done, everything they’ve been to each other, no matter how much Mickey denies it—it’s all over.

“Just shut the hell up,” Ian snaps, turning back to the silent battle of wills currently playing itself out between Jimmy and his boy- oh for God’s sake- _Mickey_ over a already half eaten roast chicken.

“-when all I did was get handsy with a Snickers bar. A _Snickers_ bar. How _that_ counted as stealing when I didn’t even make it out the freaking door-”

And thank the Lord, Mickey hasn’t even noticed, if the way he’s stuffing his food in his mouth and talking a mile a minute is any indication.

“Sounds debatable,” comments Jimmy, silencing Mickey’s tirade. “But let’s be honest here. I’m betting the first time you landed yourself in juvie, it was a lot worst than a Snickers bar. And you know what? That doesn’t matter; what we all really want to know is if you plan on going back.”

The silence that follows that grossly offensive and out-of-left-field attack (because what else could it be called?) is unsettling. Ian feels a piece of grilled fish trying to swim its way back up his throat. Even the kids’ chatter has petered off, Carl and Debbie opting, for once in their lives, to stay silent and just observe.

Mickey eyeballs Jimmy, all traces of anxiety suddenly gone, as if they'd run off with his sense of self-preservation.

Ian's seen Mickey this way more than he likes to admit; the defensive stance, the challenging look in his eye, the steely expression on his face, saying loud and clear, _hit me with your best shot_.

“I know your silver spoon self has never been in the doghouse but I can guarantee you that once you’ve been in there, you never want to go back. Ain’t no holiday, so no, I don’t plan on ‘going back’ because I’m not _stupid._ But hey, if you think I am, you can carry on thinking like that. I couldn’t care less either way.”

That’s the most he’s said during the whole night and even though Mickey’s words are measured and even, the rigid planes of his back and the tight lines across his face are packed with so much barely restrained heat that Ian's sure the table in front of him is going to be flipped over in any second 

That is, of course, until Fiona, Ian’s _Messiah_ (seriously), elbows Jimmy in the stomach. "Shut the hell up, Jimmy," she squawks, and he does, drops it like he'd never brought it up in the first place. Which doesn't at all help ease Ian's suspicions over her role as the instigator of this showdown but whatever. Once Jimmy drops the weird verbal stand off, Mickey relaxes enough to fall back in his seat and resume the poor posture he’s been wearing all night, spine curved sharply, body folded into himself as if he’s scared to show too much of himself to Ian and his family.

Ian blow outs out a tense breath and relaxes the grip he's got on Mickey's thigh, unaware until a second ago that he'd even made the grab. He keeps his hand there though and internally warms when he catches the little smirk on Mickey's face when he looks down and notices.

Dinner goes more or less smoothly from there.  

More or less because the mood considerably lightens when Carl asks Mickey for juvie stories. Even though Mickey explains to him with amusement in his eyes that jail time is nowhere near as dramatic at TV paints it, he still manages to enthral Carl, Lip and even _Jimmy_ with some of the stories he comes up with about his time away from fit society.

“So did you ask him what happened when you saw him next?” asks Carl, mash half hanging out of his wide-open mouth once Mickey’s finished telling them all a particular instance he stayed awake the whole night after hearing gasps and moans coming from the room directly across from his.

Mickey shakes his head. “No way, kid. There are some things you don’t ask in there. See, I wanted my balls intact by the time I got out of there and the best thing to do in pretty much all of the situations you find yourself in juvie is to keep your mouth shut.”

“Alright,” cuts in Fiona, “that’s enough of jail talk. Carl, get those half-eaten scraps back into your mouth. And Debbie! We have forks for a reason; use them.”

Debbie grumbles, picking up the fork and staring at it as if it’s personally offended her somehow. “ _Carl_ hasn’t been using his utensils. Look,” she says, smearing a sizeable glob of mash onto Carl’s already disgusting face.

“Oi!”

And of course, when someone crosses Carl, it’s his mission to get them back three-fold, doesn’t matter whether or not it’s his sister. Which is why a second later, Debbie’s eyes are blinking out pumpkin soup, and Fiona is grabbing the kids by their ears, voice shrieking with fury. Not that Ian’s paying particular attention, eyes too busy focused on Mickey like the mooning teenager he knows he looks like at the moment. It’s okay, though, as long as Mickey doesn’t see him, which he doesn’t, eyes fixated on the scene Carl and Debbie have created, trading whispers with Lip concerning the lack of sanity running through the Gallagher family.

“You’re lucky,” Ian hears Lip say, “this is us at our most civilised. I mean, Jesus, if you were here at our last thanksgiving, you and Ian would be done.”

“That so,” says Mickey, intrigued but not nearly enough to broach it with a ten foot pole.

Lip nods. “I wish I was kidding.”

The kids really only settle down when Fiona threatens the pair of them with a prolonged grounding sentence. It comes to head when Fiona snarls, "Carl, I swear to god, I'll drag you out the back and feed you bones like a dog."

Carl just shrugs, continuing to fork food into his mouth with his hands, so Fiona just throws her hands up and gets back to her own chair, apparently fed up with trying to school her siblings as if they were her own kids.

“So, Mickey,” says Fiona, smile tighter than it should be, and Ian can tell she’s trying really hard, bless her soul. “How’s your dad and Mandy? I haven’t seen them around in a while.”

Ian tries not to spray his water all over the table. He tries even harder to swallow it down, with considerably less glee and a lot more anxiety, when Mickey sends him a dirty look that promises to make him regret the day he ever looked at Mickey twice.

 

* * *

 

Later, when they've excused themselves from the table and headed upstairs to Ian's room, Lip opting to stay behind to do the dishes even though they'd both volunteered to do them (well, Mickey had volunteered when Ian had kicked him hard in the shins), Ian falls back onto his bed, stretching out the knots that have plagued him since that morning.

"Pseudo mommy and daddy don't like me," says Mickey, and if Ian were anything close to resembling a hopeless romantic, he would have sworn Mickey sounded something akin to disappointed.

But he's not. And Mickey doesn't do disappointment.

"They just think I'm too good for you," teases Ian, pulling Mickey down by the hem of his white shirt, "which is probably true, by the way. A guy who's clumsy enough to stain his shirt with gravy is clearly a guy who doesn't deserve to be with me."

He traces the outline of the stain and feels Mickey tense up around him, and the soft breaths along his skin as Mickey says, "Good thing I'm not that guy then."

"Yeah, good thing," Ian agrees, and quietly, softly so as not to spook him, he adds, "Thanks for coming tonight. I can tell how hard it was, what with fucking Judge Judy cross examining you."

Mickey chokes out laughter. "Right. I thought I knew how weird your family is, but seeing what I did tonight," he pauses to arrange himself around Ian, slotting his thighs between Ian's, framing his face with his hands, and tracing his freckles with the pads of his thumbs, "took weird to a whole new level. I'd feel sorry for you if I didn't realise how much they actually care for you."

Ian grins and darts forward quickly to catch Mickey's mouth in a kiss. Mickey returns it without hesitance, licking his bottom lip, breaking the seam of his mouth and almost devouring Ian with the force of his enthusiasm.

The recklessness of what they're building up to is not lost on Ian and he has half a mind to push the boy off him, cool down, but when Mickey climbs on top of him, pulling at his clothes and scratching at his bare sides, Ian abandons any sense of propriety.

Just a quick one, he promises himself. Just a quick mutual wank and they'll both be downstairs with Mickey ready to bid the family a cordial goodbye just as he leaves this twilight zone-esque night behind them for good.

As luck would have it, they don't manage to be quick nor do they manage to get off.

Lip pushes open the door with a bang two minutes later, just as Ian's boxers are down by his ankles, and Mickey's mouth is ghosting over Ian's hard and attentive cock.

Lip watches the pair of them for five seconds longer than necessary, embarrassment flushing Ian's cheeks, and anger quickly colouring Mickey's. It's almost hysterical how horrified Lip looks, given the way he's usually unfazed by the most brazen, horrific things, like unplanned pregnancy for instance, or murderous neighbourhood thugs. Not that it doesn't mean he doesn't have any self-preservation; he comes to his senses a second later when he hears Micky's guttural growl, and hightails it out of there before the pair of them can come running after him.

Suffice it to say, the boys don't try anything after that. So when Mickey leaves minutes later, mumbling hurried goodbyes and offering the standard _thanks for having me_ and _nice to meet you all_ , he almost runs the four blocks it takes him to get home in dire need of a good jerk off.

And when Ian calls him a half hour later, Mickey’s already taken care of his hard-on, several times over in fact, but he finds, with surprise and oddly, no alarm whatsoever (but that’s probably the orgasms talking), it’s not at all a chore to stay on the line to help Ian out with his own erectile problem. 


End file.
